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COLONEL  FLOWERS 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archivd 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/auntcharitysligiOOjone 


Aunt  Charity's 
'Ligious  'Speriences 


Other  Poems 


GopyrigM^  1896,  by 
Gertrude  Blanly  Jones. 


THE  now^  coui("Tin^ 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Aunt  Charity  Gets  Religion  .  5 
— As  a  Christian  ...  9 
— Backslides .  .  .  .  13 
— Helps  Fresco  the  Meetin'-House  17 
— Hears  the  New  Years'  Sermon  20 


— On  the  College  Boy 

.  24 

— On  the  Suffer- Aunts  Convention  27 

— On  the  Banguet 

.  31 

M^arfiTHif  s  Lullatjy 

34 

Mammy  Gets  tJie  Boy  to  Sleep 

36 

3IaJ)el  Helps  the  Cook  Get  Suxjper 

38 

OTHER  POEMS. 

A  fti:  JJj  1  tij  1 1  tx^K^  1   a  kjlUl  //            .  • 

A  Woiaan^s  Fidelity 

48 

The  Old  Church  Melodeon 

.  55 

A  Trarap^s  Christmas  . 

59 

Bessie  s  Christmas  Eve  Lark  . 

.  65 

A  Thanksgiving  Pie 

73 

Practicing  for  the  Piano  Recital 

.  80 

Her  Two  Sons     .       .       .  . 

83 

Tlie  Savior  and  the  Outcast 

.  88 

When  Allie  Plays 

91 

In  the  Studio 

.  93 

A  Fuss  in  the  China  Kiln 

96 

Wine  and  Love 

.  98 

A  Song  in  the  Night  . 

100 

432554 

THE  A  J  SHOWALTER  CO' 
PRINTERS  AND  STATIONERS, 
DALTON,  GA 


Aunt  Charity's    m     ®  I 
@   'Ligious  'Speriences.  j 


Aunt  Charity  Gets  Religion. 


jes'  wanted  ter  be  'ligious 
In  along  wid  all  de  rest, 
An'  jine  de  clmrcli,  an'  be  baptized, 


An'  ferevermore  be  blest. 
But  I'll  declar  ter  goodness 

I  wus  flustercated  so 
Dat  I  got  mixed  up  an'  pestered, 

An'  I  didn't  know  whar  ter  go. 
Fust,  de  Prisbyterians  tells  me 

Not  ter  kick  up  any  row, 
Ef  de  Lawd  is  gv/ine  ter  save  me 

He  will  do  it  any  how, 
No  use  ter  make  er  racket, 

Er  ter  holler,  er  ter  cry, 
Dat  when  de  ship  of  Zion 

Comes  er  sailin'  gran'ly  by, 


Ef  I's  ben  predesternated, 

An'  am  one  of  de  eleck, 
De  captain  he  will  grab  me 

An'  den  h'ist  me  on  de  deck. 
An'  when  I  gits  good  started, 

I's  ter  keep  straight  on  de  way, 
Fer  I'll  never  cross  de  ocean 

Ef  I  starts  new  every  day. 
Den  de  Baptist  next,  dey  gits  me, 

An'  dey  takes  me  to  de  pool, 
An'  dey  say  ter  me,  "Now  Charity 

Don't  you  go  an'  be  er  fool. 
You  satisfy  yore  conscience 

An'  be  shore  you  do  whut's  right. 
You  go  into  dat  water,  chile. 

Glean  under,  out  of  sight ! 
Den,  come  erlong  an'  'mune  wid  us 

An'  peace  an'  comfort  find. " 
But  I  thought  I'd  see  de  Mefodis' 

'Fore  I  made  up  all  my  mind. 
Den  de  Mefodis'  dey  takes  me 

To  de  big  bush-arbor  tent, 
An'  dey  puts  me  wid  de  mourners 

Fer  ter  weep,  an'  ter  repent; 
An'  dey  tells  me  when  I'm  happy 

Jes'  ter  let  it  pop  right  out. 
Not  ter  be  afeard  of  no  one. 

But  turn  right  loose  an'  shout. 


Den  part  of  'em  dey  tells  me, 

When  I  does  climb  into  grace, 
I  mus'  cling  dar  lak  er  turtle, 

Er  I'll  fall  down  frum  my  place. 
Den  some  say,  dat  dey  wouldn't  sin. 

Not  even  ef  dey  could; 
An'  er  right  smart  of  'em  couldn't, 

Not  even  ef  dey  would ; 
But  I  does  de  fam'ly  washin' 

Fer  er  man  dat's  sanctified, 
An'  his  wife  makes  all  de  fires, 

An'  splits  all  de  wood  beside. 
So  I  goes  home  ter  my  cabin, 

An'  I  falls  down  on  my  knees. 
An'  I  raise  my  hands  ter  Heab'en, 

An'  I  ax  de  Marster  please 
Ter  fergive  me  for  de  many 

An'  de  wicked  things  I's  done, 
An'  overlook  my  meanness 

Fer  de  sake  of  His  dear  Son. 
An'  I  tells  de  Heabenly  Marster 

Dat  I  don't  know  nothin'  'bout 
Dese  'lections  an'  dese  'mersions 

An'  dese  fallins  in  an'  out; 
Den,  it  seemed  all  in  er  mxinute 

Dat  my  load  wuz  took  away. 
An'  I  felt  all  good  an'  easy. 

An'  I  heered  er  soft  voice  say: 


"Charity,  pore  ole  creetur', 

Don't  you  bother  yore  pore  head 
WicI  dere  creeds,  beliefs  an'  doctrines, 

But  jes'  look  ter  me,  instead; 
An'  though  yore  sins  be  scarlet. 

An'  yore  skin  black  ez  er  coal, 
Your  Savior,  who  redeemed  you, 

Will  shorely  save  yore  soul. 
You  trust  in  God,  an'  pay  yore  debts, 

Do  all  de  good  you  can. 
An'  you'll  have  de  sweetest  ligion 

Dat  wuz  ever  given  man. ' ' 
An"  I  understood  dat  preachin', 

An'  I's  learned  wid  all  de  rest, 
Dat  though  yore  'ligious  talkin's  good, 

Yore  'ligious  livings  best. 


8 


Aunt  Charity  as  a  Christian. 


Y^s\ow  I's  been  an'  perfessecl  ligion 
I  ==t  I  jes*  wants  ter  do  whnt's  right, 
J-^  V  ^H'ist  de  bushel  of  de  candle  'n 

Let  my  light  show  clar  an'  bright: 
But  de  preacher  he  done  tole  me 

Hit's  er  gwine  ter  be  er  tussle, 
Er  fight  wid  tongue  an'  temper, 

An'  er  holdin'  in  of  mussle; 
But  my  sin  has  been  my  saddle, 

An'  ole  Satan's  been  my  hoss 
Long  ernough,  an'  now  I's  walkin', 

Wid  de  Savior  fer  my  boss. 
While  de  gospel  meetin's  lasted 

An'  hit's  songs  rung  in  my  ears, 
Wid  my  heart  plum  full  o'  glory. 

An'  my  eyes  all  full  o'  tears, 
Hit  wuz  easy  ter  keep  stiddy; 

But  when  Monday  mornin'  come 
An'  de  meetin'  wuz  done  busted. 

Den,  de  tug  o'  war  begun. 
When  de  clo'es  wuz  washed  an'  ironed,. 

An'  took  home  ter  Mrs.  Ray, 
I  foun'  her  cross  an'  fussy, 
9 


An'  de  fust  thing  dat  she  say 
Wuz,  "Two  hankerchers  er  missin'! 

Very  strange  whar  dey  all  go  ! 
Unless  I  is  mistaken  much 

Aunt  Charity,  you  know. ' ' 
•'You'r  a  li — "  an'  den  I  halted 

Lak  my  tongue  wuz  floored  an'  tied, 
While  de  devil  wuz  er  churnin' 

Me  ter  fury,  all  inside; 
Fer  a  hand  seized  on  de  dasher 

Dat  wuz  gentle,  an'  yit  bold, 
An'  er  voice  cried:  "Halt  dar  Satan, 

She  is  mine  now,  loose  yore  hold  ! ' ' 
Den  de  devil  went  er  sneaking' 

Y/id  er  droopin'  tail  an'  head, 
An'  de  churn  dasher  got  stiddy, 

An'  I  cotch  my  bref,  an'  said: 
"As  I  wuz  er  gwine  ter  remark 

You'r  li — able  ter  mistake, 
Bf  dem  hankerchers  is  missin' 

Dere  value  good,  I'll  make." 
An'  den  dat  'oman  stare  at  me. 

An'  she  stare  widout  er  wink; 
An'  I  heered  her  mutter  easy: 

"Did  you  ever  !    Jes'  ter  think  !" 
De  next  day  I  heered  er  racket 

In  de  alley  out  my  way, 
An'  dar  stood  er  shinin'  carriage 
10 


An'  cle  smilin"  i\Irs.  Rav. 
''I  jes'  stopped  ter  tell  you  Chariiy. 

Dat  de  hanker clier's  all  right; 
Found  'em  both  safe  in  my  buro. 

La^yin'  dar  in  plainest  sight. 
Here's  er  bundle  I  have  bru.ng  you: 

Jes'  er  suit  fer  little  Joe. 
An"  er  package  o'  fresh  coffee, 

Gaze  I  know  you  love  it  so. 
An'  Charity.  I  am  sorry 

I  mis j  edged  you  yisterday. 
When  I  seed  you  hold  yore  temper. 

When  I  riled  you,  den  I  say. 
'Dat  pore  creetur"  in  her  pov'rty, 

Wid  her  trials,  an'  hard  lot. 
Is  richer  far  dan  I  is. 

Gaze  she's  got  whut  I  have  not. ' 
Den  I  run  up  in  my  chamber 

An'  I  fell  down  on  my  knees, 
So  ashamed,  an'  oh  so  'umble; 

An"  I  axed  my  Savior  please 
Ter  fergive  mj  ugly  temper 

An'  my  heart  so  proud  an'  bad. 
An'  ter  give  me  jes'  de  'ligion 

An'  de  grace  old  Gharity  had. 
An'  he  give  me  jes'  dat  minute 

Er  heart  all  clean  an'  new, 
An'  Charitv.  I's  so  happv, 
11 


Gaze  I's  got  religion  too  !" 
Den  frum  out  dat  carriage  flutter 

Lak  er  dove,  er  hand  so  white, 
An'  ercross  de  wheels  I  grasp  it 

In  my  black  'un's  close  an'  tight; 
Den  de  driver  tech  his  hosses, 

An'  away  dat  carriage  flew, 
Her  face  lak  mawnin'  glories 

'Fore  de  sun  dries  oi¥  de  dew. 
Dar  I  stood  bewildered,  gazin' 

Whar  dem  bosses'  hoofs  had  trod. 
Me,  ole  Charity,  er  darky, 

Leadin '  home  er  soul  ter  God  ! 
Me,  er  pore  ole  ignerunt  creetur' 

What  ken  hardly  read  er  spell, 
Bein'  used  by  de  great  Marster 

Fer  ter  do  His  holy  will ! 
Bless  de  Lawd  !    I'll  keep  er  try  in' 

Sich  er  Marster 's  love  ter  win; 
One  sich  day  o'  'ligious  livin's 

Wuth  er  hund'rd  days  o'  sin. 


12 


Aunt  Charity  Backslides. 


hen  I  lieered  de  great  Culpepper 
Wuz  er  gwine  ter  preach  dat 
night 

I  set  my  head  to  heer  'im 

Ef  my  way  I  had  to  fight; 
So  I  falls  in  wid  de  people 

An'  jes  foUer  whar  dey  went. 
Until  I  finds  er  scrongin'  place 

Outside  de  big  white  tent. 
I  thought  I'd  see  er  preacher 

'Bout  eight  or  ten  feet  high, 
Wid  er  brestplate  on  his  bosom 

An'  er  head-light  fer  an  eye; 
But  instid  of  dat  Goliar 

What  I  'spected  fer  ter  see, 
Dar  walked  upon  de  platform 

Little  David— ^ 'to  a  T." 
He  look  so  brave  an'  sassy 

Lak  he  knows  he's  in  de  right, 
An'  can  easy  whup  the  devil 

In  er  even  handed  fight. 
Den  when  he  got  his  sling -shot  out 
13 


He  set  de  rocks  er  flyin', 
An'  kept  de  Philistins  right  an'  left, 

Er  laughin'  an'  den  cryin'. 
When  he  iam  de  stingy  people, 

I  looks  over  at  Miss  A  

What  gives  me  jes  er  quarter 

When  I's  washed  fer  her  all  day, 
An*  I  seed  she  looked  oneasy 

— Fer  dis  nigger  aint  er  dunce — 
An'  I  laughed  to  think  she's  heerin' 

De  whole  Gospel  truf ,  fer  once ; 
An'  when  he  blip  de  tattler, 

I  looks  over  at  Miss  Mack, 
— What  purrs  an'  flatters  ter  yore  face, 

An'  claws  you  in  de  back;^ — 
When  she  begin  ter  figit 

Lak  de  bench  aint  right,  somehow, 
I  sa^ys:  "Dat's  business  David, 

Let  her  have  it  all  right  now  ! ' ' 
Den  de  preacher's  voice  growed  quiet. 

An'  de  sacred  trufs  he  tole 
Seemed  ter  burn  dere  way  lak  lire 

Right  into  de  people's  soul. 
An'  de  silence  wuz  so  solemn 

'Neath  dat  big  ole  canvas  ark. 
You  could  heer  de  water  drippin' 

At  de  fountain  in  de  park; 
An'  de  katydids  quit  singin' 
14 


'Way  up  in  de  trees  erbove 
An*  listened,  while  de  preacher 

Tole  of  Jesus  an'  his  loA^e. 
Ben  his  restless  eyes  er  ilashin' 

Swept  clean  down  de  outside  aisle 
Until  dey  seemed  er  restin' 

On  dis  pore  ole  trimblin'  chile. 
''You  fraud  out  dar,  er  coverin' 

Some  meanness  dat  you's  done! 
You  'spects  ter  fool  yore  conscience. 

An'  de  Lawd,  an'  His  dear  Son?'" 
Den  my  teeth  begun  ter  rattle 

An'  hit  look  lak  I  must  holler, 
Caze  I  see  he's  lookin'  stiddy 

At  my  new  turn-over  coUer; 
Dat  coller  whut  I  borrowed 

Oif  er  neighbor's  ironin'  rack, 
An'  den  clean  f ergot  I  had  it, 

An'  never  took  it  back. 
Of  de  balance  of  dat  sermon, 

Not  er  blessed  word  I  heered; 
I  felt  so  mean  an'  restless, 

An'  I  wuz  so  hacked  an"  skeered, 
Dat  I  fell  down  side  de  benches 

Wid  trimblin',  sobbin'  breath, 
(While  dat  blame  ole  turn-down  coller 

Chocked  me  mighty  nigh  ter  death,) 
An'  I  axed  de  Lawd's  fergiveness 


Fer  my  sins,  an'  got  it  too. 
But  I'll  never  git  done  wonderin' 

How  dat  John  Culpepper  Tcneio 
Dat  he  cunjers  wid  de  spirits 

I  believe  is  shorely  so: 
Else,  how  comes  dat  man  er  knowin' 

Whut  de  common  folks  don 't  know 
Ef  you's  planin'  any  mischief, 

Better  watch  what  yore  erbout, 
Fer  dat  John  Culpepper  preacher 

Will  be  shore  ter  find  you  out. 


16 


Aunt  Charity  Helps  Fresco  the 
Meetin*=House. 

ese  yer  Prisbyterians, 

Dey's  gittin'  mighty  proiid; 
Dey  tote  derselves  so  gran'  an' 
stiff. 

Wid  dere  noses  in  de  cloud; 
Wid  dere  paintin'  an'  dere  cleanin. ' 

Dey  makes  er  pow'rful  fuss, 
An'  dey  aint  got  time  ter  notice 

Pore  ole  cullud  folks  lak  us. 
Hit  wuz  only  jes'  dis  mawnin' 

Dat  I  went  ter  Mrs.  Jones 
An'  I  tole  her  how  de  rumatiz 

Wuz  achin'  of  my  bones, 
An'  I  axed  her  fer  to  give  me 

Fifty-five  er  sixty  cents, 
Fer  ter  git  er  little  bottle 

Of  dat  Mustang  Liniment; 
But  she  say:  ''I'm  sorry  fer  you 

But  you  reelly  ought  ter  know 
Dat  I'm  savin'  all  my  money 

Fer  ter  go  in  de  fresco. ' ' 
Den  I  went  ter  Mrs.  Jenkins 
17 


Wliut  is  always  kind  an'  good, 
Fer  I  knowed  she'd  sliorely  help  me, 

Ei  'twuz  possible  she  could. 
But  she  smiled  at  me  so  gentle, 

An'  said  I  have  ter  wait 
Tell  de  meetin'  of  de  Dorcas, 

When  my  case  she'd  proper  state. 
She'd  be  glad  herself  ter  help  me. 

But  dat  every  dime  an'  cent 
She  could  rake  a^n'  scrape  tergether, 

Fer  de  fresco  all  wuz  spent. 
So  I  thought  while  I  wuz  passin' 

By  de  church  I'd  stop  er  spell 
An'  see  de  wond'rous  doin's 

Of  which  I'd  heered  sich  tell. 
But  bless  de  gracious,  honey  ! 

Vf  hen  I  got  me  clean  inside, 
My  lower  jaAv  kept  drappin' 

Tell  my  mouth  hung  open  wide. 
De  roof  was  streaked  an'  stripped 

Wid  buff  an'  gray,  an'  green 
Lak  de  clown's  dress  in  de  circus 

De  purtiest  ever  seen. 
Dar  wuz  sweet  potato  custards 

Wid  de  crust  all  brown  an'  thin 
— Big  as  water  buckets — 

Wid  notchin'  roun'  de  rim; 
An'  de  chair  board,  an'  de  X3ull-pit 


Wiiz  'lasses  candy  red. 
An'  er  little  patch  o"  heaven 

Hung  o'er  de  preacher's  head; 
An'  I  gaze  an'  I  wonder 

Tell  I's  feeling  mighty  good; 
Den  I  walks  np  in  er  corner 

Whar  er  good  ole  Deacon  stood, 
An'  I  reech  down  in  my  pocket 

Fer  my  quarter  new  an'  bright. 
Whut  I  'lowed  ter  spend  fer  'backer 

Ter  cheer  me  of  er  night. 
An'  I  said:  "Here,  Mr.  Deacon, 

Hit's  all  I've  got  ter  give. 
But  de  blessed  Lawd  who  knows  it, 

Will  shore  de  mite  f  ergive. 
An'  I  wants  ter  have  er  sharin' 

In  de  blessing  whiit  will  fall 
On  de  folks  Avhut  sets  de  Marster 

An'  his  temple  up  "fore  a.11; 
But  de  evenin'  am  er  slii3pin' 

An'  dis  darky  now  must  go, 
Mighty  proud  ter  be  er  helpin' 

In  de  Meetin'-house  fresco. '' 


19 


Aunt  Charity  Hears  the  New  Year's 
Sermon. 

set  back  dar  in  de  meetin', 

— In  de  cullud  folkses  pew 
Fer  ter  hear  de  'New  Year  Sermon, 
All'  de  choir  sing-in'  too; 
I  wnz  quiet  lak,  an'  easy, 

An'  er  feeling  pnrty  good, 
TMnkin'  how  I'd  been  er  livin', 

'Bout  as  'ligious  as  I  could. 
"'Course  Lawd, "  I  wuz  er  sayin', 

"Ef  I  could  pitch  my  voice  an'  sing 
Lak  dat  lady  dressed  in  velvet 
Wid  de  pigeon  fedder  wing; 
Br  blow  er  chune — so  easy — 

On  de  hornet  lak  dat  lad; 
Er,  pay  in  shinin'  dollars, 

Lav/d,  I  do  it,  oh  so  glad  ! 
But  I  gives  my  dimes  and  nickles 
To  de  church  wid  willing  heart, 
An'  in  pra'r,  an'  praise,  an'  shoutin', 

I  has  always  done  my  part; 
Bless  de  Lawd,  dat  pore  old  Aunt 
Charity 's 

20 


Done  de  very  best  she  kiiowed?" 
Den  I  felt  myself  er  swellin' 

Sorter  lak  er  singin'  toad; 
Den  de  preacher  'gun  ter  tell  iis 

How  dat  God  looked  straight  within ; 
Dat  no  'mount  of  'ligious  kiver 

Could  from  his  eye  hide  er  sin; 
Dat  de  heart  must  be  lak  water 

Springin'  from  er  mountain  height, 
An'  dat  only  Jesus'  pardon 

Makes  de  fountain  clar  an'  bright; 
Dat  yore  good  works  aint  wuth  nuthin' 

Widout  love  your  actions  fill; 
Dat  dey's  jes'  er  sugar  coatin' 

On  de  same  ole  bitter  pill; 
Dat  de  biggest  shuck  may  kiver 

Jes'  de  sorriest  kind  o'  corn; 
Dat  er  showy  vine,  de  pores t 

Kind  o'  'tater,  may  erdorn. 
As  he  preached,  de  happy  SY\rellin' 

Kinder  oozed  out  o'  my  hide; 
"Oh,  good  Master,  pore  ole  Charity's 

Done  de  best  she  could!"  I  cried. 
"No  she  aint,  you  humbug  sinner!" 

Said  er  voice  right  at  my  ear, 
(Though  no  one  wuz  settin'  nigh  me,) 

An'  I  shook  de  bench  in  fear, 
"Did  you  bake  dat  loaf  o'  light  bread 

3c  21 


Fer  de  sick  gal  down  yore  way? 
Did  you  keep  her  mother's  baby 

While  she  rested?  Did  you?  Say 
When  ole  simple  Jimmie  brung  you 

His  pore  jacket  torn  an'  old 
Did  you  leave  yore  tubs  an'  mend  it 

So  'twould  keep  out  win'  an'  cold? 
Did  you  shar'  yore  bread  an'  coffee 

Wid  de  sick  boy  tramp,  dat  day, 
Let  'im  warm  good  by  yore  fire? 

Did  you  do  it,  Charity?  Say?^^ 
Oh  de  pain,  an'  shame,  an'  sorrow, 

Hurt  me  worser  'en  er  blow. 
Per  I  had  ter  answer  honest 

To  dat  Spirit:  'No  Lawd,  no!' 
"Aint  you  shouted  many  'n  evenin' 

When  you'd  better  been  er  prayin' 
Aint  you  left  undone  de  small  things 

Arter  bigger  things  er  strayin'? 
'Fore  yore  purty  vine  o'  good  works 

Is  er  spreadin'  furder  'round, 
Hadn't  you  better  find  de  bigness 

Of  dat  'tater  in  de  ground?" 
What  could  I  do,  pore  darky, 

But  ter  weep  an'  jes'  confess 
• — Wid  my  mouth  an'  heart  in  ashes— 

To  dat  Sperit:  'Yes  Lawd,  Yes!' 
Well!  dat  hour  o' New  Year 'spreachin 

22 


Wuz  er  hard  'un  to  endure, 
But  fer  chronic  'ligious  dropsy 

'Twuz  er  shore  an'  sudden  cure. 
Dis  mawnin',  fit  fer  fly  in' 

Wid  de  wings  o'  grace  all  spread; 
Now,  er  crawlin'  lak  er  grub- worm 

Wid  de  pinions  singed,  an'  dead. 
No  Marster,  ole  Aunt  Charity 

Aint  done  her  best  I  feer, 
But  she'll  turn  er  new  leaf  over, 

An'  do  better  Lawd,  dis  year. 


23 


Aunt  Chanty  on  the  College  Boy. 


ur  Tommie's  home  from  Colleg 
now, 

Er  clashin'  graduate, 
Wid  er  paper  certify  in' 

Dat  he's  larnt  all,  up  ter  date; 
He's  de  same  at  heart,  I  reckon, 

Wid  de  same  ole  laugh  an'  walk, 
But  his  head  is  shorely  muddled, 

Jedgin'  by  his  looks  an'  talk. 
He  used  ter  kneel  at  bed  time 

Fer  ter  say  an'  evenin'  pra'r. 
An'  wuz  larnt  plum  from  de  cradle 

Dat  '  'God  is  every  whar. ' ' 
But  nov/,  he  aint  quite  sartain 

Ef  dey's  any  sich  er  bein'; 
An'  dat  Jesus  Christ's  er  fable 

Most  great  minds  am  now  agreein 
An'  'fore  de  fuzz  is  started 

On  his  upper  lip  ter  sprout, 
Dat  boy  is  done  groAved  smarter 

Dan  de  biggest  man  erbout. 
His  pa's  er  'umble  Christian 
An'  er  wise  jedge.  all  in  one. 


But  Lawci!    He  don't  know  nothin' 

Side  his  edicated  son  ! 
He  'lows  he's  evoluted 

From  er  common  branch  tad -pole. 
Er  polly wog-,  er  wiggietail 

In  some  ole  fishin'  hole; 
Dat  when  he  got  real  tired 

O'  cuttin'  sich  er  iigger. 
He  took  er  runnin'  sommerset 

An'  turned  to  somethin'  bigger. 
Arter  t'ousand  years  o'  swappin', 

In  er  monkey's  hide,  he  ran. 
Den.  er  risin'  on  his  haunches 

Flopped,  his  self  inter  a  man. 
But  as  shore  as  yore  er  livin' 

Dis  time  he's  missed  his  heft, 
Caze  I's  watched  'im  an'  diskivered 

Er  right  smart  o'  monkey  left. 
He  says  dat  he's  Agnostick, 

An'  er  big  Theosofice, 
An'  er  heap  o'  other  varmints 

Wid  names  dat  don't  sound  nice. 
I  thought  of  ticks,  an'  fices. 

Most  every  sort  I'd  seed; 
But  I  'spects  dis  recent  creetur's 

Of  de  evolutin*  breed. 
An'  I  don't  know  whut  he's  meanin' 

'Less  he's  traveled  de  whole  road 


An'  now  is  going  backerds 

Towerd  de  fishin'  hole  an'  toad. 
He  said  ter  me  dis  mawnin', 

''Gran,  dar's  nothin'  dat  yon  know. 
You  think  dat  God's  in  heaven, 

You  think  de  world's  below. 
Dar's  nothin'  dat's  quite  sartain, 

Measured  by  my  verdict. ' '  - 
'  'I  knows  one  thing, ' '  I  answered, 

"You's  er  ragin'  lunatic.  " 
My  boy  so  peart  an,  k  no  win' 

Dat  de  world  would  suffer  loss 
'Less'n  he  comes  ter  de  rescue, 

Fer  ter  help  his  Maker  boss  ! 
Great  Marster,  guide  my  Tommie, 

An'  be  patient  wid  de  lad; 
Hit's  his  head  dat's  mixed  an'  pes- 
tered, 

Not  his  heart  dat's  wrong  er  bad; 
When  dat  latherin'  an'  shavin' 

Has  done  fotched  er  mustache 
through , 

I  b'leeve  dat  Tommie 's  senses 

Is  er  gwine  ter  come  back  too; 
So  watch,  an'  guide  an'  keep  'im 

Tell  er  little  time,  he  gains, 
An'  be  easy  on  'im  Marster, 

Tell  he  gits  his  beard  an'  brains. 

26 


Aunt  Charity  on  the  Suffer=Aunts 
Convention. 


Iwuz  gwine  by  de  opera  house,  so  I 
thought  I'd  stop  er  spell, 
An'  see  de  wond'rous  goin's  on  of 
which  I'd  heered  sich  tell; 
I  slipped  into  er  back  seat,  an'  I  look 

frum  left  ter  right; 
Jes'  solid  packed  wid  wimmen — only 

two  pore  men  in  sight. 
De  rostrum,  hit  wuz  sprinkled  'bout 

wid  wimmen,  less,  er  more 
Ter  cheer  de  speakin'  sister,  an'  ter 

help  hold  down  de  lioor, 
Susan  Anthony,  dey  tole  me,  wuz  de 

head  one  fer  ter  rule. 
An'  I  'membered  how  Mars  Tommie 
when  er  boy,  an'  gwine  ter  school. 
Made  speeches  'bout  Mark  iVnthony. 

an'  'bout  de  Roman  law. 
Den  I  knowed  all  in  er  minute  dat  dis 

here  wuz  Markus'  ma. 
Miss  Catt  she  wuz  de  chairman,  but  I 
bet  my  Sunday  hat 
27 


She'ud  climbed  upon  de  table  at  de 

mention  of  er  rat, 
An'  I  couldn't  help  but  wonder,  while 

she's  roun'  de  country  sittin' 
Who's  at  her  house  a-nussin'  an'  er 

carin'  fer  de  kitten. 
Den  dey  interduced  Miss  Ketchum,  an' 

she  caught  'um  all  astir, 
Den  Miss  Duniv/ay  talked  smilin'  tell 

dey  done  erway  wid  her. 
Dar  sat  one  lonely  Colt-in  Lines,  but 

de  lines  looked  ilecked  wid  foam, 
I  'lowed  he's  chafin'  'gin  de  bit,  an' 

de  female  curry  comb. 
•'Please  Miss,  whut  do  dese  wimmen 

want?"  I  asked  of  er  lady  nigh. 
"De  right  ter  vote;   dey  wants  de 

pole, "  she  said  wid  flashin'  eye. 
Den  I  felt — jes'   zactly  honey — lak 

she's  slapped  me  in  de  face, 
Whut  fer  dese  wimmin  cravin'  of  dat 

cussin'  w^rangiin'  place? 
No  brave  men  whur  dey  come  frum, 

willin'  all  dere  w^ars  ter  fight, 
Ter  see  dey  aint  m.olested,  dat  dey  gits 

dere  every  right? 
We's  sorry  fer  dese  wimmen,  wid  no 

husband's  manly  mouth 


Ter  do  dere  public  scrappin',  but — 
how  come  'em  in  de  south? 

Hit's  er  waste  o'  breath  an'  mussle  ter 
come  preachin'  sich  stuff  here, 

Whur  de  gallant  southern  hero  holds 
his  wimmen  folks  so  dear 

Dat  he'd  spill  his  heart's  warm  life- 
blood  ter  defend  dere  every  right, 

Ter  keep  'em  pure  an'  modest,  an'  his 
home  sacred  an'  bright. 

Dat's  whut  de  men  is  fer,  child,  ter 
tread  on  de  rostrum  boards, 

Ter  speecherfy  an'  fight  an'  bite  an' 
monkey  wid  de  swords, 

An'  leave  de  gentle  wimmen  folks  ter 
fill  de  home  wid  beauty, 

Ter  lead  de  little  feet  aright  in  paths 
of  truth  an'  duty; 

Ter  turn  out  boys  so  pure  an'  true, 
wid  sich  sound  jedgment  totin' 

Der  be  no  need  fer  ma  and  sis  er  hunt- 
in  '  poles  fer  votin. ' 

Suppose  dey  has  de  right  ter  vote; 
dey's  got  er  right  dat's  surer, 

Ter  live  fer  God,  soothe  pain  an'  woe, 
an'  make  de  ole  world  purer. 

Dis  movement's  wrong;  dem  suffer- 
aunts  is  hurtin'  of  de  nation; 
4c  29 


Hit's  better  mothers  dat  we  need;  not 

votes,  but  consecration. 
But  let  'em  swarm,  er  let  'em  hive,  er 

let  'em  keep  er  flyin', 
Our  wimmen  will  be  womanly,  er  else 

dey'll  die  er  tryin'. 


30 


Aunt  Charity  on  the  Banquet. 

ich  er  stirrin',  dat  ole  kitchen 
Never  seed  de  lak  before, 
Niggers  comin'  an'  er  goin' 
Wid  dere  waiters,  through  de  door, 
Sich  er  clinkin'  of  de  glasses; 
Sich  er  poppin'  of  de  ale, 
An'  er  breakin'  of  de  ice  up, 
Fer  ter  cool  de  new  "cocktail;" 
An'  I  thought  dem  toastin'  demmer- 
crats 

Is  er  gitten'  mighty  gay; 
Fust  thing  dey  know  de  temp 'ranee 
crowd 

Will  spile  dat  pretty  play. 

When  I  had  er  chance  fer  restin' 
I  peeped  through  the  open  door, 
An'  honey — bless  yore  soul — de  sight 
Mos'  knocked  me  to  de  floor. 
Who  you  think  it  was  er  clinkin', 
An'  er  drinkin'  there,  so  gay? 
Who  you  think  it  was  er  toastin' 
An'  er  boastin'  in  dat  way? 
'Twas  de  elders  an'  de  deacons 
31 


An'  cle  stewaji'ds  of  cle  town, 
De  cliurch  men,  an'  de  mayor — 
All  de  biggest  men  er  roun'. 

See  dat  smilin'  steward  yonder  ! 
Watch  dP4;t  claret  glass  up  raise; 
He's  de  man  whut  draws  de  "amens" 
An'  de  "glory,"  when  he  prays. 
An'  dat  elder  yonder,  drinkin' 
Of  his  toast  in  sparklin'  wine, 
He's  de  one  whose  temp 'ranee 

speeches 
Is  drawed  out  so  strong  an'  fine. 
An'  there,  honey — O'  de  pity — 
By  his  side  there  sits  er  man 
Who  is  try  in'  to  quit  drinkin' 
Jes  de  hardest  dat  he  can; 
An'  I  know  his  gentle  daughter 
Is  at  home  with  tear  dimmed  sight 
Er  prayin'  "Oh  God  keep  him — 
Keep  my  papa  safe,  tonight ! ' ' 

Charity,  Charity,  Charity, 
Somethin's  wrong  ole  nigger,  shore! 
Yoic  cant  have  yore  dram  at  home,  chile, 
Per  yore  rheumatiz,  no  more; 
Yore  influence  aint  worth  nothin', 
An'  yore  skin's  as  black  as  night. 
Yet  conscience  said;  an'  they  said 
32 


That  yore  drinkin'  wasn't  right. 
How  come  de  sauce  fer  gander 
Aint  good  sauce  er  nough  fer  goose? 
What  mek'  em  slight  dere  sweethearts 
An'  dere  wives,  widout  excuse? 
Caze  dey  know  of  de  good  women 
Came  ter  see  dere  banquet  show 
Dat  ''Hattan  cock"  would  drap  his  tail 
An'  never  dare  to  crow. 
I'd  quit  dat  crowd  o'  demmercrats 
Er  givin'  big  wine  dinners 
Fer  de'  publicans,  whut  smites  de 
breast 

An'  OWNS  dat  dey  is  sinners. 


33 


riainiiiy's  Lullaby. 


•0  ter  sleep  now,  dat's  er  honey: 
Mammy '11  tell  er  tale  so  funny 
'Bout  er  purty  yaller  hen 
Hatchin'  baby  chicks,  an'  den 
y/ouldn't  tend  'em  lak  she  oughter; 
Trapsin'  'round  in  grass  an'  water 
Place  er  keepin'  in  de  dry. 

An'  de  chickens  dey  would  f oiler 
Best  dey  could,  an'  peep  an'  holler: 
"Mammy,  mammy,  we'r  mos'  froze, 
We  caint  hardly  lif '  our  toes; 
Set  down  mammy,  hover,  hover. 
Let  us  creep  in  'neaf  de  cover, 
'Pears  lak  we  is  'bleeged  ter  die. 

But  de  mammy  never  heedin' 
Went  off  in  de  rye  patch  feedin'; 
Den  er  pullet  standin'  nigh 
— Jes'  'bout  big  ernuf  ter  fry — 
Said:    "Come  yere  chickies,  all  to- 
gether, 

I  aint  got  no  sight  o'  feather. 
But  I'll  warm  you  bes'  I  kin.  " 

34 


Den  she  hover  'em  so  funny, 
An'  de  missus — bless  you  honey  ! — 
Seed  de  sight  wid  her  own  eyes, 
An'  she  said  ter  ole  Aunt  Lize: 
"Kill  an'  cook  dat  lazy  mother, 
Give  her  chickens  ter  de  other 
Cunnin'  little  pullet  hen." 

Keep  yore  eyes  shet  tight,  my  honey; 
Mammy '11  tell  you  tales  so  funny. 
You's  er  chick  yo'self,  sweet  thing! 
Mammy's  shoulder  is  er  wing, 
Under  her  black  feather's  creep, 
While  she  hovers,  don't  you  peep — 
Dar!  De  chile  is  fast  er  sleep. 


35 


Mammy  Gets  the  Boy  to  Sleep. 


T^ome  er  long,  you  blessed  baby; 
I       Mammy '11  tell  you  story,  maybe; 

^ Pat's  right;  clam  up  in  my  lap 
Lak  er  man,  and  tek  er  nap. 
y/uk  so  hard  he  almos'  dead; 
Mammy's  arm  will  res'  his  head. 
Pore  chile  oughter  bin  in  bed 
An  hour  ago. 

Tell  you  'bout  de  possum,  honey? 
De  mammy  possum  got  er  funny 
Leetle  pouch,  erbag  o'  skin 
Lak  you  totes  yore  marbles  in — 
All  along  her  underside, 
WhSbT  de  baby  possums  hide 
When  deys  skeered,  er  wants  ter  ride — ■ 
Quit  wigglin'  so! 

Some  time  dat  mammy — pore  ole  crit- 
ter— 

Has  sixteen  babies  at  one  litter; 
Wide-mouf,  long-nose,  squirmin' 
things, 

Wid  tails  dat  twist  lak  fiddle  strings. 
36 


Sixteen  lak  you  ter  mek  er  fuss. 
Ter  tote,  an'  feed,  an'  rock,  an'  nuss — 
Keep  still!    Hit's  no  'sprise  ter  us 
Possum's  hair's  gray! 

Honey,  when  de  houn'  dawgs  ketch 
'im 

Dere  nose  an'  paw  ain't  more'n  tech 
'im 

Tell  drop,  dat  possum  he  done  dead; 
No  sign  er  life  from  foot  ter  head; 
Wid  eyes  shet  tight,  he  lay  and  smile, 
An'  fool  dem  houn'  dawgs  all  de  while, 
Play  lak  you's  er  possum,  chile — 
Yes,  dat's  de  way. 

Possum  in  de  oven  roastin'. 
Slice  sweet  taters  roun'  'im  toastin', 
Taste  so  good  when  he  git  done! 
Mammy '11  give  her  baby  some. 
Eyes — shet — tight — yes,  dat's  de 
way— 

Houn'  dawgs  goin',  goin',  er  way — 
Bless  de  boy,  no  possum  play 
In  dat  sleep ! 


5c 


37 


ilabel  Helps  the  Cook  Get  Supper. 

on't  cum  here  now  wid  yore 

messin', 
Henderin'  me  while  I'se  er 
dressin ' 

Dese  yere  spring  chickens  fer  tea; 
Fryin'  chickens  ain't  so  funny 
When  it  comes  ter  Conf 'runce,  honey; 

Spect  de  Bishop  he'll  eat  three. 
Look  now  at  dat  mess  er  flour! 
You  ain't  wore  dat  dress  er  hour, 

Now  it's  all  stuck  up  an'  spiled; 
Me  v/id  rumatiz  er  achin', 
Washin'  twell  my  back  is  breakin' 

Finery  fer  er  keerless  child. 
Ise  er  mind  ter  slap  you,  Mabel, 
Spillin'  milk  on  my  clean  table! 

Thar  now,  honey,  don't  you  pout; 
Mammy  didn't  reely  mean  it; 
Here's  my  thimble;  when  I  clean  it 

You  kin  cut  yore  biscuits  out. 
Put  'em  on  dis  pan  an'  shove  'em 
In  the  corner  of  de  oven, 

An'  I'll  see  dey  takes  no  hurt; 
Yore  pappy '11  brag  on  'em  an'  eat  'em, 
38 


Swearin'  dat  no  one  kin  beat  'em. 
Dough  dey's  fairly  black  wid  dirt. 

Look  yonder  at  dat  chicken  fallin' 

In  de  slop  bucket;  he's  callin' — 
Don't  you  hear  'im,  child — fer  you; 

Goodness!  I  mus'  keep  things  hum- 
min', 

Time  now  dat  dem  preacher's  cum- 
min'; 

Git  out!  PER  DE  Lawd's  sake  do. 


39 


The  Engineer's  Story. 

hake  hands,  please,  Mr.  Preach- 
er, 

Soniethin'  good,  and  mighty 
queer 

Happened  to  me  late  last  evenin'. 

And  I  thought  you'd  like  to  hear. 
I  had  brought  my  trusty  engine 

Even  schedule  time  to  beat. 
And  was  makin'  from  the  depot. 

For  a  drink,  and  bite  to  eat; 
I  was  passin'  yonder  chapel 

Where  you  folks  were  holdin'  prayer, 
And  I  laughed  and  wondered  grimly 

What  you  found  to  i)lease  you  there ; 
When  a  suddin'  sound  of  singin' 

Floated  through  the  open  door. 
And  I  stopped;  Where  had  I  heard  it — 

Heard  that  old  time  tune  before? — 
"How  sweet  the  name  of  Jesus 

Sounds  in  a  believer's  ear." 
My  heart  most  stopped  its  beatin' 

As  if  seized  with  deadly  fear. 
Would  you  believe  it.  Preacher, 

I  was  struck  as  with  a  chill, 

4.3 


And  my  knees  began  to  tremble, 

And  I  seemed  to  lose  my  will, 
For  I  sank  down  weak  and  helpless 

'Neath  that  big  old  maple  tree, 
With  my  hands  pressed  on  my  temples, 

And  my  head  against  my  knee. 
"Oh  that  song!"  I  cried  "Oh  stop  it. 

How  it  cuts  me— like  a  knife! — 
Will  they  sing  up  every  specter 

Of  my  wicked,  wretched  life?" 
I  could  see  a  little  cottage 

Sittin'  back  among  the  trees; 
I  could  smell  the  sweet  nasturtiums, 

And  could  hear  the  hum  of  bees; 
I  could  see  the  cheery  kitchen, 

— Every  nook  about  the  place — 
And  the  dear  old  busy  mother 

With  her  calm,  untroubled  face; 
I  could  see  the  home-spun  cover 

Tucked  about  my  cosy  bed; 
I  could  feel  my  mother's  kisses 

After  evenin'  prayers  were  said; 
I  remember  how — awakenin' — 

I  had  often  found  her  there, 
Kneelin'  meekly  by  my  bed  side 

With  a  softly  murmured  prayer; 
Then,  I  saw  that  home  dismantled, 

Mother  gone,  and  rooms  so  chill; 


And  I  heard  the  dead  leaves  rattle 

O'er  the  dreary  home  door-sill; 
That  was  when  the  devil  got  me, 

And  I  served  him  long  and  well, 
Drainin'  every  cup  he  offered 

Till  my  soul  was  'most  in  hell. 
"How  sv/eet  the  name  of  Jesus, " 

— That's  the  song  she  used  to 
sing;— 
I  revile  him  every  hour. 

My  old  mother's  Lord  and  King! 
Those  old  mem'ries  kept  a  crowdin', 

Till  the  anguish — at  the  worst — 
Seemed  too  great  for  me  to  bear  it 

And  I   thought   my   heart  w^ould 
burst; 

I've  been  bruised  in  v/recks  quite  of- 
ten, 

(From  my  scars  that  fact  you'll  see,) 
But  I  never  had  a  smashup 

Like  the  one  down  by  that  tree. 
I  just  lay  there,  long,  athinkin', 

Then  I  dropped  down  on  my  knees. 
And  the  words  I  fell  to  sayin' 

Sounded  something  near  like  these: 
"Oh  God,  if  my  old  mother 

Could  stand  by  me,  stanch  and  true, 
Forgivin'  all  my  meanness 

6c  45 


And  my  sins,  O'  Lord,  won't  you? 
I  can't  say  for  the  sake  of  Jesus 

When  my  lips  that  name  profane, 
But  O'  for  the  sake  of  mother, 

Make  me  God,  thy  child  again! 
I'm  sick  of  a  life  of  sinin'. 

Of  the  devil  and  all  his  clan, 
AndO'  God  if  you'll  help  me 

I  will  be  a  better  man. ' ' 
Midst  the  dark  clouds  of  my  anguish 

A  bright  little  ray  peeped  through. 
Then  all  at  once  I  was  laughin' 

And  sayin':  'For  Jesus  sake  too!' 
Then  I  got  up,  Mr.  Preacher, 

And  walked  through  these  streets 
all  night; 

Though  the  town  was  wrapped  in 
darkness 

It  seemed  to  me  filled  with  light. 
This  mornin' — I  don't  deny  it — 

I'm  sorter  o'  cravin'  my  dram; 
I've  caught  myself  twice  a  smotherin' 

A  thoughtless  and  hasty  damn; 
But  I'm  a  goin'  to  keep  tryin' 

Never  to  fall,  or  to  swerve; 
And  I  guess  I'll  manage,  with  Jesus 

To  hold  down  the  break  on  a  curve. 
Well,  good-bye.  dear  Mr.  Preacher, 

46 


Long  life,  and  good  luck  to  J^ou: 
Yon  see  tiiat  the  name  of  Jesns 
Is  sweet  now  to  my  ear,  too. 


47 


A  Woman's  Fidelity. 


sad  woman  paced  the  old  rickety 
floor, 

_  The  cold  wind  swept  under 
the  rattling  door; 
As  the  lire  burned  low,  she  hugged  to 

her  breast 
The  sick  little  one  she  was  coaxing  to 
rest. 

"I  tant  do  to  s'eep,  'tause  I's  firsty, 
an'  I 

Tant  fordet  'bout  dat  orange  you 

promised  to  buy." 
"Mamma's  poor  baby!    Try  to  sleep 

now,  and  we 
Will  get  the  sweet  orange  to-morrow 

— maybe." 
As  the  mother  thus  answered,  she 

looked  in  despair, 
Across  at  the  bed  in  a  dark  corner, 

where 

Her  husband  lay  piled  in  a  stupor  so 
deep, 

That  it  seemed  rather  death,  than  a 
mere  drunken  sleep. 

48 


And  the  poor  woman  thought  of  the 
old  home  so  dear, 

Of  which  she  had  once  been  the  light 
and  the  cheer; 

Of  the  old  sunny  garden;  the  music 
and  books; 

Of  father's  indulgence,  his  kind  words 
and  looks. 

Of  the  day  when  that  father  she  rash- 
ly defied 

And  ran  off,  to  become  handsome  ^Yil- 
lie  Brown's  bride. 

How- — though  from  the  old  home  dis- 
carded, exiled — 

She  had  been  very  happy  with  hus- 
band and  child. 

Till  a  slumbering  appetite  burst  into 
flame, 

And  brought  her  to  poverty,  hunger 

and  shame. 
She  placed  her  sick  child  in  the  wee 

cradle  nigh 
And  sank  to  her  knees  with  a  pitiful 

cry: 

''Oh  God!  I  can  bear  to  be  hungry  and 
cold; 

I  don't  mind  my  garments  so  tattered 
and  old, 


But  oh.  for  Thine  own  sake,  in  mercy 
God  give, 

Both  clothing  and  fire,  that  my  baby 
may  live. 

Some  food,  and — an  orange,  oh  God, 
I  implore! 

Just  enough  for  my  baby ;  I  ask  noth- 
ing more." 

The  old  door  is  tapped;  then  it  swings 
open  wide 

And  an  old  man^ — fur  coated — stepped 
softly  inside. 

•'Kittie!"  "My  father!"  with  quick 
bated  breath. 

Each  stares  at  the  other  as  pallid  as 
death. 

The  old  father  sees  the  young  husband 
arise, 

And  gaze  at  him  dully,  in  stupid  sur- 
prise; 

He  sees  the  wan  face  of  the  sick, 

sleeping  child; 
His  Kittie's  brown  eyes,  so  pathetic 

and  wild; 

He  opens  his  arms,  and  his  girl's  head 
is  pressed 

in  passionate  sorrow  to  her  old  fath- 
er's breast. 


'•Poor  Kittie!  Forgive  me.  my  sweet 
bonnie  Kate! 

I  never  dreamed,  love,  of  j^our  sorrow- 
ful fate. 

Come  home  with  your  baby,  dear, 
never  again 

Shall  you  or  he  know  aught  of  pover- 
ty's pain." 

Then  he  turned  in  his  wrath  on  the 
wretched  young  man: 

"You  miserable  sneak,  look  at  me  if 
you  can! 

You  stole  my  sweet  girl  like  a  thief  in 
the  night. 

Then  sacrificed  her  to  your  cursed  ap- 
petite. 

Not  a  hound  on  my  place,  but  is  far 

better  fed. 
I  give  to  the  beggar,  a  more  decent 

bed. 

Are  you  listening,  you  scoundrel?  I 
heard  her  in  prayer 

Asking  God  for  an  orange,  for  your 
sick  child  there" — 

"Hush  father!"  the  woman  with  flash- 
ing eyes  cried 

As  she  sprang  from  his  arms,  to  her 
young  husband's  side 
51 


"Nay,  Kittie,  my  darling,  he  is  speak- 
ing the  truth; 

I  have  ruined  your  life ;  I  have  spoiled 
your  bright  youth. 

You  must  go  to  your  father,  and  try — ■ 
my  poor  wife — 

To  forget  all  the  pain  I  have  brought 
to  your  life. 

He  won't  believe,  Kittie,  but  maybe 
you  will, 

Though  I've  starved  you  and  baby,  I 

love  you  both  still: 
And  say  to  me,  Kittie.  before  our 

good-bye 

That  you  think  'twas  the  liquor  that 

starved  you,  not  I." 
The  girl  stole  again  to  her  old  father's 

side, 

"I  love  you!  I  thank  you,  dear  papa,'" 

she  cried; 
"Take  baby;  his  young  life  with  every 

good  fill; 

But  father,  I'm  going  to  stay  here 

with  Wl. 
I'm  used  to  privation;  it's  drink  that's 

his  curse. 

My  going  away  would  but  make  mat- 
ters worse. 

52 


'For  better  or  worse/  father,  that  was 
my  vow. 

My  love  is  the  only  thing  left  to  him 
now." 

The  old  man's  dim  eyes  and  the 
younger  one's  met, 

•'Such  love  should."  he  whispered, 
"make  a  man  of  you  yet." 

"Won't  you  kneel.''  plead  the  woman, 
••and  help  me  to  pray 

That  the  cloud  o'er  our  home  may  be 
taken  away? 

That  God  will  lay  hold  on  this  fierce 
appetite?" 

And  the  three  humbly  kneel  in  the 
gioom.  of  the  night. 

The  father  and  daughter  are  standing 
once  more, 

But  the  husband  still  bows,  motion- 
less, on  the  floor. 

•'Good-night,  little  daughter,  to-mor^ 
row  shall  bring 

The  food  and  the  fuel  you  need — every- 
thing. 

And  keep  a  brave  heart;  for  the  fu- 
ture depend 

That  whatever  may  happen,  your  fath- 
er's your  friend." 


Then  he  goes.  The  wife  kneels  by 
her  young  husband's  chair, 

And  caressingly  strokes  his  dishev- 
eled brown  hair. 

Through  the  night  thus  they  kneel, 
mute  and  still  as  the  dead, 

Till  the  daAvn  through  the  casement 
her  pale  light  has  shed. 

Then  the  man  kissed  his  wife  with  the 
old  courtly  grace, 

And  went  off  to  work  with  a  calm, 
happy  face. 

-X-  *  74-  ^5-  -K- 

Since  that  day,  years  have  flown;  and 

now  Willie  Brown 
Is  a  prosperous,  trustworthy  man  in 

his  town 

He  is  trusting  for  help  in  a  power 
above. 

He  is  saved  by  God's  grace  and  a  true 
woman's  love. 


54 


The  Old  Church  ilelodeon. 


f can't  tell  you  how  I  felt,  dear, 
Standin'  there  a-watchin'  while 
They  carried  the  old  Melodeon 
Slowly  down  the  old  church  aisle; 
My  hands  were  tightly  clenched,  an' 
though 

No  words  my  lips  had  spoken, 
My  heart  kept  cryin'  out,  "Good-bye! 
Another  link  is  broken!" 

It  seemed  like  a  dear  human  soul, 

It  had  stood  by  us  so  long; 
In  times  of  war,  an'  in  times  of  peace, 

It  had  led  each  gosj)el  song. 
"The  Ark  of  the  Covenant"  it  seemed 

To  the  remnant  war  had  left, — 
That  little  handful,  crushed  an'  sad. 

Of  all  hut  faith  bereft. 

But  'round  the  old  Melodeon 
We  had  rallied  once  again, 

Forgetting  in  God's  service  much 
Of  our  bitterness  and  pain. 

Across  the  old  Melodeon 
In  prosperity — as  in  strife — 

55 


The  same  old  pastor  preached  to  us  , 
The  words  of  eternal  life. 

In  front  of  the  old  Melodeon 

Our  little  ones  were  led, 
God's  blessing  and  baptism  resting 

*Upon  each  precious  head; 
We've  looked  o'er  its  low,  plain  casing 

At  the  crowded  altar  where 
Our  "Children  of  the  Covenant" 

Bent  in  penitential  prayer. 

In  front  of  the  old  Melodeon 

We  have  placed  our  sainted  dead. 
While  the  funeral  dirge  was  chanted, 

An'  the  last  sad  words  vv^ere  said; 
Then  again,  the  old  Melodeon 

On  occasions  gay  an'  bright. 
Has  borne  great  banks  of  lilies, 

And  of  bridal  roses  white. 

But  the  young  folks  said  'twas  wheezy. 

And  unsuited  every  way. 
So  they  bought  a  brand  new  organ, 

In  the  old  one's  place  to  stay, 
An'  the  pastor,  so  beloved. 

He  has  faltered  by  the  way, 
An'  an  earnest,  j^ounger  preacher 

In  the  pulpit  stands  to-day. 
56 


An'  the  organist's  hair  is  whitenin'. 
AYith  the  storm's  of  life's  rough 
weather. 
Like  that  banished  old  Melodeon, 
We're  all  getting  old  together. 
If  we  could  only  have  kept  it, 
As  long  as  WE  should  last; 
But  you  young  ones  couldn't  knov/. 
dear, 

How  it  bound  us  to  the  past. 

An'  your  new  organ's  a  beaut}^. 

With  a  stop  for  every  key. 
An'  with  swinging  lamps  an'  brackets. 

An'  a  side  swell  for  each  knee, 
An'  it  makes  a  pov/er  o'  racket, 

Soundin'  kind  o'  sweet  the  while. 
Though  I  never  fancied  music 

You  could  hear  a  good  straight  mile. 

But  there!    I'm  not  a  fussin', 

Keep  your  organ,  'tis  your  due. 
You  young  ones  soon  must  play  it, 

An'  must  run  the  new  church,  too: 
What  difference  does  it  make  dear? 

For  the  time  will  soon  be  nigh 
When  the  old  folks  an'  their  pastor 

Will  be  in  the  Church  on  high. 
57 


But  'twould  make  me  kind  o'  happy, 

Could  I  feel  right  sure  to-day, 
That  the  old  Melodeon  never  knew 

That  it  had  been  cast  away; 
For  deary,  there  is  nothin'  makes 

A  withered  heart  so  sore, 
As  to  know  its  day  of  usefulness 

An'  helpfulness  is  o'er. 


58 


A  Tramp's  Christmas. 

fu  the  twilight  he  stood,  midst  the 
gay  city's  din, 
Shivering  'neath  garments  ragged 
and  thin, 

Watching  the  hurrying,  chattering 
throng 

On  their  Christmas  eve  errands  speed- 
ing along. 

Hungry  and  shoeless,  half  crazed  by 
drink. 

He  rubbed  his  poor  brow  in  an  effort 
to  think. 

Only  three  years  ago — Ah,  heaven! 
could  it  be 

That  he  then  walked  these  streets  in- 
dependent and  free? 

Free  from  that  curse  that  now  held 
him  in  thrall. 

The  curse  that  had  cost  him  his  honor, 
his  all. 

Then  respected  of  men,  his  old  moth- 
ers pride; 

Now  at  twenty,  a  drunkard — aye,  beg- 
gar beside. 

59 


His  precious  old  mother!  'Twas  the 
thought  of  her  face 

Tha^t  brought  him  once  more  to  his  old 
native  place. 

Just  to  pass  once  again  by  that  dear 
mother's  door: 

Perchance,  just  a  glimpse  of  her  sweet 
face  once  more, 

Then,  back  to  the  miserable,  sin-bur- 
dened life. 

Till  a  merciful  death  should  end  the 
sad  strife. 

As  he  mused  thus,  a  great  dog  sprang 
over  the  street 

And  knocked  the  poor  tramp  from  his 
trembling  feet. 

With  loud  barks,  the  dog — in  his  fren- 
zy of  joy- 
Licked  the  eyes,  face  and  hands  of  the 
vagabond  boy. 

And  the  boy,  so  long  friendless,  un- 
loved and  alone, 

Kissed  the  great  shaggy  head  so  close 
to  his  own, 

In  the  soft  silky  hair  he  buried  his 
face. 

Forgetful  of  poverty,  dirt  and  dis- 
grace. 


''Oh,  Shepherd,  you  knew  me!  You 
didn't  forget 

Your  poor,  wayward  master;  you 
LOVE  me,  old  pet? 

How's  mother,  old  fellow?  No!  Shep- 
herd don't  g'o — 

Don't  leave  me  to  die  all  alone  in  my 
woe!" 

And  he  tightened  his  arms  and  held 

the  dog  fast, 
As  his  mind  traveled  back  o'er  the 

brief  wretched  past. 
He  could  feel  the  strong  throb  of  the 

great,  faithful  heart, 
And  his  conscience,  long  dead,  was 

beginning  to  smart. 
"If  in  a  dog's  breast  an  attachment  so 

true 

Could  live  on  for  years,  wouldn't 

mother's  love  too? 
If  in  creatures  created,  such  true  love 

could  live, 
Might  not  the  Creator  himself,  e'en 

forgive  ? 

Come,  Shepherd,"  he  faltered,  "I'm 

tired  and  sick; 
Maybe  mother  will  have  me;  take  me 
home  to  her  quick!" 
8c  61 


The  trembling  feet,  all  shoeless  and 
sore, 

Were  guided  by  "Shep"  to  the  old 

cottage  door; 
Then  the  tramp  tumbled  down  in  a 

dark  ragged  heap, 
Forgetting  his  troubles  in  stupor -like 

sleep. 

He  opened  his  eyes  in  his  own  snowy 
bed, 

Soft,  scented  pillows  were  under  his 
head. 

The  mantle  clock  moved  with  the 
same  stately  tick, 

In  his  bright  gilded  prison  still  chir- 
ruped old  Dick; 

So  sweet  was  it  all!  but  O,  it  was  best 

When  the  poor  tramp  was  drawn  to 
his  dear  mother's  breast. 

"Oh,  Jimmie,  my  boy!  At  last,  my 
poor  lad, 

You've  come  home  to  make  your  old 

mother's  heart  glad. 
For  weeks — day  and  night — I  have 

knelt  here  to  pray 
That  my  boy  might  come  back,  on  this 

glad  Christmas  day; 
And  I  looked  for  you,  Jimmie,  for  God 

62 


don't  deceive 
His  tried,  faithful  servants,  Avhen  they 

ask  and  believe. 
I  knew  you  would  come;  though  the 

heavens  may  fall, 
God  hears,  and  will  answer,  a  true 

mother's  call. " 
"Oh,  mother,"  he  whispered,  "I  have 

fallen  so  low; 
I 'm  not  fit  for  your  touch,  let  me  die ; 

let  me  go. " 
But  she  held  him  the  closer.  ""Be 

quiet,  dear;  nay, 
I'll  not  let  you  go;  does  God  treat  me 

that  way 

When  I  creep  to  his  arms  for  forgive- 
ness and  light? 

He  holds  me.  as  I  hold  you,  loving  and 
tight; 

And  3^ou'll  not  die,  my  boy;  you  need 

good  care  and  food; 
Mother '11  nurse  you  to  health  and 

your  old  happy  mood. ' ' 
Aye,  she  did  more  than  that,  for  the 

sorrowing  youth 
Learned  again  from  his  mother  sweet 

lessons  of  truth. 
The  sunlight  that  cheerily  crept  o'er 
63 


his  bed; 

The  soft,  gentle  pressure  of  old  Shep- 
herd's head; 

The  flower- decked  wmdow,  the  song- 
ster above. 

Filled  the  house  all  day  with  the  mu- 
sic of  LOVE. 

From  this  love,  he  saw — in  a  measure 
yet  dim — 

What  Christ's  love — redeeming  love, 
might  mean  to  him. 

The  boy  tramp  became  a  true  man 
from  that  hour, 

And  came  back  to  health,  with  a  won- 
drous power; 

A  power  over  self,  and  through  heav- 
enly grace, 

A  power  to  bless  and  to  lift  up  his 
race. 


64 


Bessie's  Christmas  Eve  Lark. 

weet  Bessie  Bronner,  an  heiress 

and  pet, 
The  pride  of  her  home,  and  the 
queen  of  her  set, 
Has  a  frown  on  her  face,  and  is  rest- 
less, and  vexed, 
At  the  hold  on  her  mind,  of  one  trou- 
blesome text, 
And  impatient,  she  peers  through  the 

big  window  pane 
In  the  deepening  dusk,  as  she  mur- 
murs again: 
'Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  not' — pshaw, 
what  have  I 
To  do  with  'these  little  ones,'  of  the 
Most  High! 

"Perhaps,"  still  she  muses,  "some 

poor  little  one 
Dreams  to-night  of  a  Santa,  who  never 

will  come; 
What  a  lark  it  would  be — if  I  only  did 

dare" — 

Here  her  eyes  flash  as  bright  as  the 
gems  in  her  hair, 

65 


As  with  quick  resolution  she  rings  for 
old  Jim, 

The  tried,  faithful  footman,  the  slave 

of  her  whim. 
'  'Order  the  carriage,  Jim,  please,  right 

away; 

Not  one  word  of  this,  to  any  one  say; 

"G-et  ready  to  follow  me;   for  you, 
alone, 

Shall  be  for  one  evening,  my  sole 

chaperon. " 
Then  upstairs  she  runs,  for  her  purse 

and  her  toque. 
Over  her  evening  dress,  draws  a  warm 

cloak. 

And  then  to  the  "swell,"  who  later 

should  call 
To  accompany  her  to  a  holiday  ball, 
A  very  short  note  does  she  hastily 

pen; 

•  'Shall  be  ready  to  fill  my  engagement 
at  ten. ' ' 

Then  down  to  the  city,  through  gay, 

brilliant  streets. 
Where  her  carriage  is  crammed  with 

toys  and  sweets. 

66 


"Now,  to  Rag  Muffin  Quarter,"  and 

old  Jim,  aghast, 
Protesting  in  vain,  gives  the  order  at 

last. 

Our  Bessie  alights  from  her  coach  in 
the  dark, 

Her  heart  beating  fast,  at  her  venture- 
some lark, 

And,  followed  by  Jim  with  his  arms 
full  of  toys. 

She  climbs  an  old  stair,  guided  up  by 
the  noise. 

Tossing  her  cloak  and  cap  on  the  floor. 
She  timidly  knocks  at  the  half -opened 
door, 

Then  enters  the  room  ill-lighted  and 
bare. 

Appalled  at  the  squalor,  and  poverty 
there; 

A  half  dozen  children  in  silent  sur- 
prise. 

Stare  at  the  lady,  with  wondering 
eyes. 

Who  was  this  creature  in  shimmering 
silk, 

With  glittering  jewels,  and  skin  white 
as  milk? 


Their  rapt  admiration  brings  smiles  to 
her  face, 

And  she  says — with  a  courtesy  of  old- 
fashioned  grace — 

'^I  am  Santa  Claus'  wife,  and  it's  now 
Christmas  time; 

Please  accept  these  few  toys  with  his 
love,  and  mine." 

Like  the  flash  of  a  meteor,  brilliant 
and  queer. 

To  dazzle  a  moment,  and  then  disap- 
pear. 

From  one  room  to  another  speeds 
light-hearted  Bess 

With  her  quaint  little  bow  and  start- 
ling address. 

Quick    follow^ed    by    laughter  and 

shrieks  of  delight 
As  the  dolls,  guns  and  wagons  are 

dragged  into  sight. 
The  last  door  is  opened,  and  wond'ring 

Bess  stands, 
With  her  gay  greeting  checked,  and 

with  close  clasping  hands 
On  a  cot  in  the  corner,  a  wretched  boy 

lies, 

With  fever-flushed  face,  and  with  wild 


restless  eyes. 
Beside  him,  a  little  girl,  haggard  and 
old, 

In  the  dim  candle  light;  and  the  room 
was  so  cold. 

Then  a  voice  broke  the  silence  with 

pitiful  ring: 
'  'Oh,  you  are  an  angel,  and  so  you  can 

sing! 

For  two  days  and  nights,  Bennie's 

raved,  and  he's  cried 
For  the  song  that  our  mother  sung 

'way  'fore  she  died. 
'Jesus  lover' — he  mutters,  all  day  and 

all  night, 

And  he  begs  me  to  sing;  and  I've  tried 

with  my  might, 
But  I  can't  sing,  for  hunger,  and  pain 

in  my  head; 
And  he  won't  go  to  sleep;  Oh,  I  wish 

we  were  dead!" 

With  a  heart  that  was  aching,  and 

eyes  that  were  dim. 
Our  Bess  began  singing  the  old  gospel 

hymn: 

"Jesus  lover" — in  beauty,  the  youth- 
ful voice  rang, 
Pc  69 


And  the  lad  watched,  intently,  her 

face  while  she  sang. 
Rough  women  and  children  out  of  the 

rooms  pour, 
And  gather  in  silence,  about  Bennie's 

door; 

And  hard-looking  men  from  below 

leave  their  beer. 
And  stand  around,  wondering,  such 

music  to  hear. 

Perchance,  some  sin-burdened  bosom 
is  wrung. 

As  once  more  they  hear  it,  "the  song 

mother  sung." 
The  old  hymn  is  ended  in  silence  most 

deep. 

For  poor  restless  Bennie  has  fallen 
asleep. 

To  the  child,  Bessie  whispered, 
'^Here's  money,  my  dear. 

For  food  and  for  fire,  and  holiday 
cheer; 

My  doctor — please  God — shall  save 

Bennie's  life; 
Good-bye;  don't  forget  me — old  Santa 

Claus'  wife. " — 
And  the  girl,  all  unconscious  of  dan- 


ger  or  harm, 

With  a  fortune  in  gems  on  her  white 
neck  and  arm, 

Smiled  up  at  her  audience  sweetly, 
and  bowed, 

As  she  passed  safely  out  through  the 
grim,  silent  crowd. 

Bessie  Bronner  then  went  to  her  holi- 
day ball, 

And  found  there  the  lights,  flowers, 
music  and  all; 

She  was  danced,  wined,  and  flattered, 
and  into  her  ear. 

Was  whispered  soft  nonsense  she 
never  did  hear. 

For  the  whole  thing  seemed  vapid,  in- 
siped  and  mean, 

And  her  mind  wandered  off  to  a  differ- 
ent scene. 

*  -X-  -X-  -X-  •«• 

In  the  tenement  house  to  this  day  are 
still  rife. 

Strange  stories  of  Santa  Glaus'  beau- 
tiful wife: 

And  the  gay  swells  of  fashion  are 
puzzling  yet. 

What  lost  them  the  queen  of  their  rol- 
licking set: 

71 


For  one  taste  of  unselfishness  spoiled 

the  gay  girl, 
For  Fashion's  caprices  and  Revelry's 

whirl, 

On  that  bright  Christmas  eve  in  a 

Santa  Clans  role, 
The  butterfly  girl  found  a  woman's 

sweet  soul. 


72 


A  Thanksgiving  Pie. 

cold    wind    was    blowing,  the 
morning  was  drear; 
But  within  the  old  kitchen, 
there  was  naught  but  cheer. 
At  the  window,  a  yellow  rose  held 

queenly  sway, 
As  it  blossomed  and  climbed  in  its 

own  regal  way; 
And  Bess — mother's  sunbeam — with 

hair  golden  bright 
As  the  big  yellow  rose,  was  at  work 

with  her  might. 
She  was  baking  a  wonderful  Thanks- 
giving pie 
For  dear  Mr.  Grumpy,  their  neighbor, 
close  by. 

At  first  the  poor  widow  had  said  '  'no 

my  dear. " 
But  Bess  had  lolead,  with  smile,  kiss 

and  tear 

And  conquered;  for  her  mother  had 

made  a  shrewd  guess 
That  Grumpy— himself— couldn't  snarl 

at  her  Bess. 

73 


After  much  care  and  labor,  at  last  it 

was  done — 
The  cutest  dried  apple  pie  under  the 

sun! 

The  crust,  short  and  flaky,  was  notched 

on  the  rim, 
In  a  manner  to  ravish  an  epicure — 

grim. 

And  Bess  laughed  aloud  at  the  thought 

of  his  pleasure 
As  she  crossed  o'er  the  street  with  her 

hot,  juicy  treasure. 
In  his  big  lonely  palace,  by  the  tiled 

fireplace 

Sat  Grumpy — alone — with  a  frown  on 
his  face. 

There  were  rheumatic  twinges  in 

every  limb; 
His  liver  was  torpid,  his  sight  getting 

dim. 

The   "Morning    News"  so    full  of 

Thanksgiving  lore. 
He  crumpled  and  threw  with  a  scowl 

to  the  floor. 
"Thanksgiving!  Pra^^,  what's  that  to 

me;"  growled  he, 
"I  care  for  no  one,  and  no  one  cares 

for  me." 


A  light  tap  is  heard,  then  the  door 

opens  wide 
And  Bess  flushed  and  smiling  stands 

at  the  man's  side. 
"I's  brought  you  a  fanksgiving  pie.'" 

she  said. 

With  a  confident  nod  of  her  bright 

yellow  head. 
"It's  dot  lots  o'  sugar,    continued  the 

elf, 

•'An'  its  awful  nice  pie,  'tause  I  made 

it  myself. ' ' 
How^  tired  of  waiting  the  little  hands 

got, 

For  the  pink  palms  were  tender  and 

the  plate  was  hot. 
The  man  at  last  motioned  the  child  to 

a  chair. 

And  stared  at  the  dazzle  of  eyes,  cheek 
and  hair. 

What,  sit  on  that  lonesome,  big  arm 

chair?  Not  she, 
Bess  put  her  pie  down  and  climbed  up 

on  his  knee. 
*'Now  lets  play  you's  Drampa. "  she 

coaxingly  said. 
As  close  on  his  shoulder  she  pillowed 

her  head. 


'  'Must  hear  your  watch  tick, ' '  was  the 

first  sharp  command. 
It  was  held  to  her  ear  by  the  man's 

clumsy  hand. 
"Must  wear  your  sjDec's  now,"  and 

without  a  demur 
He  bent  his  gray  head  while  she  made 

the  transfer. 
Through  the  big  rims  she  blinked  with 

such  shy  roguish  eyes 
The  old  fellow  laughed,  to  his  sudden 

surprise. 

"Drampa  always  kissed  me,"  the  little 

one  cooed. 
Was   ever   a    cynic    more  artfully 

wooed? 

With  a  grim  smile  at  being  so  quickly 
beguiled 

He  pressed  a  soft  kiss  on  the  cheek  of 
the  child. 

"My  Drampa's  in  heaven,"  she  said 
with  a  sigh, 

°'Is  you  doin'  to  heaven  some  day 
when  you  die?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  my  dear,"  he  re- 
plied, with  a  frown, 

But  his  cheek  paled  a  little  and  his 
eye  gla^nced  down. 


''Let's  cut  the  pie,  baby.    Here,  you 

take  a  bite 
And  I'll  take  another" — what  queer 

sudden  blight 
Robbed  speech  of  its  power,  brought 

dullness  to  ears, 
And  carried  him  backward  full  sixty- 
live  years? 
In  the  old  farm-house  kitchen,  in  the 

days  gone  by 
Mother  baked  for  him  often,  just  such 

a  w^ee  pie, 
Made  of  apples — home  dried — with 

brown  sugar  and  spice — 
— Ah  nothing  again  ever  tasted  so 

nice! 

Would  that  he  were  once  more  that 

child  of  the  past, 
With  mother's  arms  holding  him  so 

sure  and  fast. 
What  a  soldier  was  mother!  How 

bravely  she  bore 
All  the  sorrows  and  ills  of  those  days 

of  yore 

The  lires  that  burned  from  her  nature 

the  dross. 
Had  made  him  suspicious,  and  bitter. 

and  cross. 
lOc  77 


Y/as  it  too  late  to  try — though  his 
years  might  be  few — 

Was  there  something  good — yet  that 
an  old  man  might  do? 

Here  Bess  gave  his  shoulders  an  im- 
patient shake, 

"Say  Drampa,"  she  grumbled,  "tant 
you  keep  awake  ?' ' 

The  old  fellow  came  to  himself  with  a 
start 

And  silently  stared  at  his  pouting 

sweethea^rt. 
He  noticed  the  hole  in  the  little  worn 

shoe, 

Where  a  red  stockinged  toe  peeped 

plain  enough  through; 
He  noted  the  jacket,  so  pa^tched  up 

and  thin, 

With  its  faded  pink  ribbon  tied  under 
the  chin. 

How  handsome  she'd  look  in  a  warm 

velvet  cloak, 
With  those  yellow  curls  capped  by  a 

tassel  decked  toque; 
What  a  mean  man  he  was!    What  a 

stingy  old  cad 
To  be  thinking  of  self,  and  Ms  baby — 

half  clad! 


He  pressed  the  pink  palms  to  liis  eyes 
'svet  and  dim — 

Those  dear  little  hands  that  had  la- 
bored for  him 

With  a  half  sob  he  lifted  the  child  to 
the  floor 

And  led  her  Avith  stately  grace  ont  to 
the  door. 

'•Now  rnn  home  my  dear;  say  to  mam- 
ma for  me 

That  yon  and  she  dine  'with  old  Grnm- 
py  at  three. 

There'll  be  tnrkey,  cranberry,  cakes, 
candies  and  cream. 

And  a  drive  at  five  back  of  my  new 
donble  team." 

The  day  was  still  mnrky:  low  hung 
every  cloud. 

But  the  gloom  was  dispelled  from  a 
spirit  long  bowed. 

His  JjcfOy!  the  sw^et  thought  kept  com- 
ing: for  sooth — 

He  felt  quite  in  touch  with  the  pleas- 
ure of  youth. 

Ah,  she  painted  with  rose  tint  his  life's 
somber  sky. 

When  she  came  with  her  love  and  her 
Thanksgiving  pie. 


Practicing  for  the  Piano  Recital. 

cene,  Bassini's  music  study: 
Hour,  trifle  after  nine: 
Pupil  enters,  bright  and  eager 
To  be  promptly  there  on  time. 
Quietly  the  master  seats  her, 
Places  proudly  on  the  rack, 
Grandly,  classic  composition 
Free  from  taint  of  tune,  or  quack. 
For  a  moment,  silence — deadly — 
Rests  alike  on  man  and  maid, 
Till  the  master's  spark  of  genius, 
The  pupil's  kindred  soul  has  swayed 
Then,  Bassini  speaks,  in  accents 
Soft  at  first,  then  growing  higher. 
Drawing  breath  between  the  pauses— 

'  'Make,  Ready,  Fire ! ' ' 

Off  she  goes,  this  bonnie  maiden. 
For  a  gallant  soul  is  she. 
Slights  no  note  on  the  piano 
From,  the  highest  to  the  lowest  C. 
"Rinforzando — understando?'' 
Cries  Bassini  with  his  might; 
''Now,  then,  Schertzo  (how  it  hurts-( 
That  you  do  not  get  it  right;) 

80 


This  time,  Dolce,  (hotcliewhultzy 
You  are  catching  on  at  last,) 
Shake  her  with  the  left  hand  harder; 
Now  you've  got  her;  hold  her  fast! 
Ease  up  slowly,  gently,  lassie: 
Hit  her  now  a  final  slam! 
That's  a  good  one!  Now  another; — 
Ah,  how  proud  of  you  I  am!" 

That  night  at  the  ''Recital." 
One  old  lady,  sweet  of  face. 
Thinking,  maybe,  of  her  girlhood. 
Asked  with  quaint,  old-fashioned 
grace, 

"Deary,  play  us  something  liA^eiy, 
Just  one  sweet,  old-fashioned  tune, 
Money  Musk,  or  Fisher's  Hornpipe, 
Or  if  you  like  it — Bonnie  Doon." 
As  the  fatal  words  were  uttered, 
Bassini  fell  down  with  a  groan. 
And  his  wife  mopped  his  pale  features 
With  Taylor's  Premium  Cologne. 
Classic  girls  were  madly  shrieking, 
Some  gazed  with  an  anguished  eye. 
But  one  girl,  calmer  than  the  others. 
Made  the  lady  this  reply: 
"Sorry,  ma'am,  to  disappoint  you. 
But  Bassini 's  ruipils  never  'Play;' 
81 


We  'Interpret'  and  'Render' — 
Improvise  some  when  we  may; 
If  yon'U  have  the  'Raphsodie  Hon- 
gTois,' 

Number  thirteen  (sharp)  by  Listz, 
I'll  limber  up  my  finger  joints 
And  'Execute,'  if  you  insist; 
But  that  awful  thing  you  asked  for, 
Was  it — did  you  say — a  'tuns?' 
Oh,  I  couldn't;  the  bare  mention 
Makes  our  dear  Bassini  swoon." 
So  they  broke  up  in  confusion, 
And  the  girls  were  put  to  bed, 
Yfith  "Sonatas" — dipped  in  water — 
Bound  about  each  aching  head. 
And — to  better  still  insure  them 
Quiet  dreams,  and  slumber  sweet — 
Bags  of  'Nocturnes,'  hot  and  heavy, 
Were  tucked  about  their  rosy  feet. 
So  in  peace,  at  last,  we  leave  them; 
But  we  beg  our  friends  beware 
How  they  ask  these  girls  to  'Render' 
Any  piece,  that  has  an  air. 


82 


Her  Two  Sons. 


A  Firelight  Reverie. 


s  she  gathered  them  close  in  her 


all  of  its  charms. 

The  butterfly  woman  was  thrilled 
through  and  through, 

As  a  glimpse  of  what  life  meant,  burst 
on  her  view. 

Ah,  life  would  mean  vigilance,  sacri- 
fice, care; 

Precept  on  precept,  prayer  upon 
prayer, 

But  the  dear  God  would  smile  on  the 

work  of  her  hand, 
When  her  sons  before  him  in  manhood 

should  stand. 
O,  merrily  blaze,  ye  firelight; 
The  home  is  sweet,  and  the  world  is 

bright. 
For  at  mother's  knee, 
In  innocent  glee. 

The  boys  are  happy,  and  well,  and 
good. 


young,  loving  arms. 
The  old  world  of  pleasure  lost 


83 


Oh,  the  flying  years,  what  a  care  they 
brought, 

As  the  mother  with  anxious  patience 
wrought, 

Building  the  character,  day  after  day, 
With  Jesus — the  Rock — as  the  corner 
stay; 

There  were  wonderful  stories  at  twi- 
light told 

Of  knights  who  were  truthful,  chival- 
rous, bold; 

For  these  little  lads  must  early  in 
youth 

Learn  the  lessons  of  courtesy,  brav- 
ery, and  truth. 

Oh,  fling  out  your  cheer,  ye  firelight. 

The  home  is  noisy  and  gay  and  bright; 

For  with  game  and  book, 

'Neath  mother's  fond  look, 

The  boys  are  happy  and  well  and 
good. 

And  still  time  flies,  and  the  years  grow 
apace; 

The  mother  looks  up  to  her  tall  lad's 
face. 

Thought  now  answers  thought,  and  a 
comradeship  high, 

84 


But  makes  more  enduring  the  sweet 

human  tie. 
With  song  and  with  laughter,  the  old 

homestead  rings, 
And  echoes  with  music  of  horn  and  of 

strings ; 

And  the  lads  are  so  jolly,  they  care 
not  to  roam. 

For  the  dearest,  best  place  in  the 
world  is  home. 

Oh,  red  flames,  leap  in  your  glow  to- 
night, 

For  love  is  young,  and  the  world  is 

bright; 
And  at  mother's  side. 
In  strong  youthful  pride, 
The  boys  are  happy  and  well  and 

good. 

But,  ah — what  meaneth  this  clamorous 
plea? 

"There's  so  much  to  do,  mother;  so 

much  to  be; 
The  wings  of  our  strength  we  are 

eager  to  try; 
The  college  first,  mother,  the  world 

by  and  by. ' ' 
With  kindling  pride  the  woman  says 

-go," 
-lie  85 


While  the  mother's  heart  sobs  a  fal- 
tering no; 

But  she  bids  them  God-speed  and  her 
birdlings  have  flown, 

And  she  turns  back  again  to  her  silent 
hearthstone. 

Oh,  cheer  the  mother,  ye  firelight! 

For  the  house  is  still,  and  the  hour  is 
night; 

And  she'll  ask  you  each  day. 

As  the  years  wear  away, 

''The  boys — are  they  happy  and  well 

and  good?" 
The  story  is  old,  with  the  same  old 

pain. 

The  first  broken  link  in  the  dear  home 
chain; 

The  moulding  time  gone;  opportunity 
past; 

An  impress  made  which  forever  will 
last. 

And  questions  like  these:  ''Was  I 
wise?    Was  I  true? 

Have  I  left  undone  that  God  would 
have  me  do?" 

To  the  mother's  heart  steal  like  a  twi- 
light wraith 


86 


To  shadow  the  hearthstone,  and  cloud 

o'er  her  faith. 
Oh,  ruddy,  cheergiving  firelight; 
If  mothers  everywhere  tonight, 
Could  only  but  know, 
As  they  bend  to  your  glow. 
That  their  boys  were  happy  and  well 

and  good. 


m 


The  Savior  and  the  Outcast. 

fhe  Pharisee  made  a  banquet  fine, 
And  asked  the  master  home  to 
dine; 

And  on  his  holy  mission  bent, 
Of  doing'  good,  the  Master  went. 
Anon,  as  they  reclined  at  meat, 
A  woman  stood  at  Jesus'  feet. 
A  sinner  was  she;  O,  the  shame 
When  v/oman  falls  to  such  a  name! 
She  meekly  bends,  ignored,  unheard, 
To  catch  her  Savior's  every  word. 
His  conversation,  grave  and  wise. 
His  mild  rebukes,  and  kind  replies, 
Convey  the  truth,  like  a  winged  dart 
Into  her  sad  and  guilty  heart. 
Her  burdened  soul  can  bear  no  more; 
She  sinks  in  sorrow  to  the  floor, 
And  frowning  host  no  longer  fears 
As  from  her  eyes  the  blinding  tears 
Of  penitence,  are  poured 
Upon  the  feet  of  her  dear  Lord. 
She  kisses  both  his  ankles  bare; 
Then,  with  a  tress  of  silken  hair 
88 


(As  though  her  boldness  were  amiss), 
She  wipes  away  each  tear  and  kiss. 
But  worthier  gift  she  can  bestow 
Her  love  and  penitence  to  show: 
She  breaks  a  box  of  rare  perfume, 
While  sultry  fragrance  fills  the  room. 
The  Savior  felt  her  gentle  touch; 
Ah.  well  he  knew  "She  loved  much." 
Scorned  of  woman,  wronged  by  man, 
Under  curse  of  social  ban; 
Starved  of  heart,  by  disdain  stung, 
What  wonder  to  her  Lord  she  clung! 
He  knew  a  life's  pent  tenderness 
Had  spent  its  all  in  that  caress. 
The  Pharisee  vexed,  spake  thus  with- 
in; 

"He'd  know  she  was  a  child  of  sin. 
Where  he  a  prophet,  and  as  such 
Would  shake  off  her  polluting  touch." 
The   Master  turns  and  looks  him 
through, 

Reads  the  thought,  rebukes  it  too; 
Then,  to  the  woman  standing  near 
He  speaks  the  word  she  longs  to  hear ; 
"Thy  faith  hath  saved  thee;  in  peace 
go." 

Sweet  words  that  healed  her  every 
woe! 

89 


With  happy  heart,  away  she  speeds; 
Neglect  and  scorn  no  longer  heeds; 
From  sin  she'd  found  a  glad  release, 
For    Christ    himself,    had  spoken 
"peace. " 


90 


When  Allie  Plays. 

eneath  her  dainty,  dimpled  chin 
She  tucks  the  rosewood  violin; 
And  standing  'neath  the  gas- 
jet,  where 
The  soft  light  flecks  her  blue -black 
hair, 

With  pretty  lashes  sweeping  low 
Her  cheeks,   where  red  carnations 
glow. 

She  deftly  draws  her  graceful  bow: 
Then  naught  on  earth  besides  I  know — 

For  Allie  plays. 
With  roundelay,  or  minor  dear. 
She  sways  my  soul  'twixt  hope  and 
fear; 

And  sitting  back  in  shadowed  nook 

I  envy — with  a  jealous  look — 

The  violin  she  treasures  so. 

The  tendrils  of  my  heart,  she  brings 

To  concert  pitch,  to  match  her  strings; 

But  broken  strings  are  trifling  things 

When  Allie  plaj^s! 
And  yet,  could  I  but  feel  quite  sure 
No  other  man  would  e'er  secure 
91 


The  pretty  maid  to  me  so  dear, 
I'd  gladly  stay  forever  here 
Back  in  the  shadow,  dumb  and  lorn: 
I'd  bless  the  day  that  she  was  born. 
And  listen  till — on  Dooms  day  morn — 
Old  Gabriel  blew  his  final  horn 
While  Allie  played! 


92 


In  the  Studio. 


he  swept  liini  a  seat  on  the  easy 
divan 

'Mong  cushions  from  Ceylon 
and  rugs  from  Japan. 
Then  brewed  with  skilled  fingers  two 

cups  of  hot  tea, 
And  nestled  close  by  him  for  a  chat 

long  and  free. 
On  her  head  was  a  skull-cap  of  violet 
shade ; 

A  paint  brush  was  stuck  through  one 

bright  sunny  braid. 
Her  gown  was  loose  flowing,  artistic 

and — Greek. 
Of  a  tint  to  enhance  the  soft  bloom  of 

her  cheek. 
There  were  Rembrandts  and  Titians. 

a  bit  from  Millais, 
A  Venus  de  Milo.  decrepit — aufait; 
There  were  groups  from  still  life,  and 

heads  from  the  antique. 
That  invited  the  re -view  of  careful 

critique. 
12c  93 


The  orchid  decked  cup  with  its  gold 

stippled  rim 
Was  evolved  from  the  latest  decorative 

whim, 

The  girl  herself  talked  of  perspective, 

half  tones. 
Of  north  lights,  and  "schools"  of  the 

different  zones. 
Stealing  slyly,  meanwhile,  an  approv- 
ing soft  peek 
At  the  stern  classic  profile  so  close  to 

her  cheek; 
The  young  fellow  sighed  as  he  put  his 

cup  down, 
And  turned  to  the  lass  with  a  gath'r- 

ing  frown. 
"Say,  Nellie,"  he  coaxed,  do  come 

down  where  I  stay 
And  talk  to  me  once  in  the  old  cozy 

way; 

You're  accomplished  and  clever,  and 

that  is  all  right. 
But  it's  heart  and  not  art  I  am  craving 

to-night. 

My  'perspective'  is  gloomy  enough 

these  days; 
I  am  numb  with  the  chill  of  your 

*north  light'  rays; 

94 


That  I'm  blue,  little  girl,  is  an  evident 
fact; 

Yon  are  golden  and  yellow  in  thought 
and  in  act. 

Now,  marry  me,  Nellie,  and  it's  plain 
to  be  seen 

That  the  two  shades  united  will  make 
our  lives  green, 

An  evergreen  future,  Nell— w^hat  do 
you  say?" 

And  he  stood  by  the  girl  in  a  calm, 
quiet  way. 

That  trifling  must  cease  now,  she 
knew"  in  her  heart. 

Ah,  which  should  be  master — her  lov- 
er, or  art? 

The  hands  which  she  gave  him  with 
timid  restraint 

Were  pressed  to  his  lips  quite  regard- 
less of  paint. 

"You  love  me,  dear— how  much?"  he 
tenderly  plead; 

"Oh,  better  than — orchids, "  she  blush- 
ingly  said. 


95 


& 


A  Fuss  in  the  China  Kiln. 

^1  wo  pieces  of  "ironstone,"  back  in 
the  kiln, 

Were  bragging  and  nagging — as  com= 

mon  ware  will; 
"Phew!  It's  Sbll  Jired  hot  here,"  the 

cream  pitcher  said; 
"Yes,"  giggled  the  pin-tray,  "Your 

neck's  awful  red." 
"Don't  get  off  your  stilts,  now,  you 

under-glazed  mister; 
Too  free  use  of  fat  oil  is  making  yoic 

blister. ' ' 

"In  hand-painted  circles  such  speech 

you'll  abolish, 
Or  be  sent  to  your  glass  brush  for 

much  needed  polish." 
"Look  at  me,  my  stippling  is  deeper 

than  yours." 
'  'Yes ;  but  matt  gold  like  mine  so  much 

longer  endures." 
"You'll  go  to  no  sweet  Haviland  when 

you  die." 

"If  I  go  where  Carlsbad,  you  will 
surely  be  nigh." 

96  ^ 


While  they  quarreled,  the  cups  and 
the  chocolate  pot 

Of  tinest  *'Beleek"  grew  quietly  hot; 

The  fierce  glow  that  softened  the  Wor- 
cester tint, 

Brought  out  in  its  beauty  the  stippled 
gold  glint. 

From  a  cold  kiln — at  last — comes  each 
piece  from  its  place; 

The  "Beleek,"  a  marvel  of  finish  and 
grace. 

But  the  poor  little  ironstone  pieces — 
alack ! 

The  pin-tray  was   crazed,  and  the 

pitcher  was  cracked. 
In  the  hot  kiln  of  life,  'tis  even  so, 

still; 

The  fine  clay  and  common  are  put  in 
at  will. 

The  heat  that  develops  Beleek  nat- 
ures fair. 

Cracks  and  crazes  the  loud  talking 
"ironstone"  ware. 


97 


Wine  and  Love. 

old  house  rang  with  wild  ap- 
plause 

As   the  leader  of  the  temperance 
cause — 

A  youthful  preacher,  smooth  of  face — 
Came  forth  to  speak,  with  matchless 
grace. 

Old  age  and  youth  in  rapture,  hung 
Upon  the  magic  of  his  tongue. 
His  chief  monition  w^as  to  shrink — 
As  deadly  poison — the  first  drink. 
'•Look  not  upon  the  wine!"  he  cries; 
''The  danger  in  the  first  drink  lies." 
The  throng  beneath  his  glance  he 
brought, 

And  found — the  face  for  which  he 
sought. 

A  face  that  caused  him  strange  unrest, 
And  robbed  him  now  of  word  and  zest. 
That  face,  a  vine-clad,  southern  slope, 
Warmed  by  the  sun  of  love  and  hope. 
About  her  temples,  calm  and  fair. 
Clung  vine -like  tendrils  of  fine  hair; 

98 


Rich  grape  blood  stained  her  cheek 
and  lip — 

A  draught  to  tempt  the  gods  to  sip — 
Her  eyes,  wine-cups,  with  crystal  bowl 
Through  which  one  saw  her  white. 

pure  soul; 
The  draught  was  tempting;  quickly 

reached ; 

'Twas   hard    to    practice    what  he 

preached ; 
For  Cupid  coaxed:  "While  the  wine 

is  red, 

Just  one  small  sip, then  Prudence 
said: 

"Look  not  on  wine  in  glass  or  eyes! 
The  danger  in  the  first  drink  lies." 
The  preacher  wavered;  then  he  bent 
His  gaze  upon  the  lass,  intent. 
The  fire  from  his  burning  eyes 
The  wine  tint  from  her  cheek  soon 
dries, 

And  dizzy  from  a  draught  so  sweet. 
His  soul  falls  prostrate  at  her  feet. 
His   power  was   gone.     That  fatal 
draught 

Was  but  the  first  of  many  quaffed. 
A  toper  is  he  now;  alas — 
He  daily  drinks  from  love's  wine  glass ! 
99 


A  Song  in  the  Night. 


he  night  was  dark;  a  winter  rain 
In  dreary  mist  was  falling; 
My  heart  was  bowed 
Beneath  a  cloud, 
The  whole  world  looked  appalling; 
When  across  the  street  a  voice  rang 
out 

(I  caught  my  breath  to  hear  it), 
In  song  so  sweet,  it  held  entranced 
My  music-loving  spirit. 
A  woman's  song  of  love  and  trust 
Through  rain  and  darkness  ringing, 

With  head  low  bent 

I  stood  intent 
Until  she  ceased  her  singing. 
I'll  never  know  from  whence  it  came, 
That  song  through  night  gloom  steal- 
ing. 

But  to  my  heart,  with  sweetest  art 
It  brought  its  balm  of  healing. 
The  world  was  changed,  its  harsh  look 
fled. 

My  worries  followed  after, 
100 


And  with  a  song 

I  sped  along 
With  frowns  all  turned  to  laughter. 
I  thought,  perchance  'tis  ever  so; 
If  my  song  rings  out  mellow 
When  night  is  drear,  there  may  be 
near 

Some  other  downcast  fellow, 

Who  hears  my  song ;  then  he  may  sing 

Out  through  the  gloom  and  mire, 

His  comrade  soon 

Will  catch  the  tune 
And  send  it  on  and  higher. 
And  thus,  the  little  seed-songs 
'Mid  chills  of  night  we've  planted, 
Shall  grow,  until  at  God's  own  throne 
Our  sheaves  of  praise  are  chanted. 


13c 


101 


p        CALL  NUMBER 

Vol. 

I    "6ii  ^  f  i 

j 

1 

T  ^"^^  ^  >a 

Date  (for  periodical) 

Copy  No. 

311 

.49  J77A 

432554 

